Heating Up the Cooler
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: Peter Newkirk gets into some mischief that lands him in the cooler, locked up with Colonel Hogan for five whole days. I mean, what could happen? Let's find out, day by day.
1. Chapter 1: Sent Down for Bad Behavior

"Five days in the cooler for the Englander!" Colonel Wilhelm Klink shouted at the three men standing before him in the Kommandantur. "Hogan, confined to barracks for five days. Schultz, take them away! Dismissed!"

Corporal Peter Newkirk, cap in hands and looking contrite, was turning to head out the door when Colonel Robert Hogan pulled him back by the shoulder. "Now wait a minute, Kommandant," Hogan said. "Newkirk isn't the one to blame for the graffiti on the delousing station. I, well, I gave him the idea. I was recounting some of my own boyish high-jinks."

Klink punched his hand upward and said "Mmph!" Hogan could drive him crazy some days. OK, every day. What a childish prank. Why on earth would a full Colonel in the United States Army Air Corps urge anyone to draw those crude pictures of Hitler and Goering engaged in… well, Klink didn't even want to think about that part.

"I'm not letting Newkirk off the hook this time, Hogan," Klink said sternly. "He's always in the middle of mischief in this camp, and you egg him on. My order of five days stands for each of you, and don't tempt me to make it ten!"

"Fine, Kommandant," Hogan said, clearly cowed by Klink's determined stance on the matter. "Well, the least I can do is go with him. Newkirk is my responsibility."

Klink's face lit up. Hogan? In the cooler for five days? Why, it would be practically a vacation for a hardworking Luftwaffe officer like himself. Five days of no Hogan to get under his skin with his ridiculous demands and crazy antics.

But then common sense kicked in. "Wait one moment, Hogan. You want to go with him? Voluntarily? What are you up to?" Klink demanded.

"Well, how else are we going to teach Newkirk a lesson, Sir?" Hogan said. Then he leaned into Klink and added in a confiding tone, "You know what we're up against here, Kommandant. Newkirk here comes from a broken home. Circus people. Thieves and gypsies. Draw your own conclusions."

Newkirk picked up the hint. "I'm a bad 'un, Sir. I've always been a bad 'un. But please, Kommandant, don't send me to the cooler with Colonel Hogan. That would be cruel and inhuman punishment, Sir."

Klink peered skeptically at Newkirk. "How so?" he asked.

"Well, he'll talk my ear off, won't 'e? 'Show more respect.' 'Straighten up and fly right.' 'Disgrace to the uniform.' No poor enlisted man could take five days straight of that rubbish."

"Hmph!" Klink said again. "Hogan, I think you might be on to something. Suit yourself. Five days in the cooler. Schultz, take them away!"

Hogan pushed Newkirk out the door by his shoulders, but the corporal fought him every step of the way. "Get along, Newkirk. If you're not good, I'm going to ask that they put us in the double cell. Then you'll be really sorry."

"No, Kommandant!" Newkirk was protesting as he squirmed and twisted in Hogan's grip. "Not the double cell! And make 'im take 'is brasses off me. Oi!"

"Schuuuultz!" Klink shouted over the commotion. Schultz popped his head back in the door with a weary expression. "The double cell for these two scoundrels! Hogan, I expect you to straighten this man out. No more shenanigans!"

Hogan walked astride with Schultz as they left the Kommandantur, chatting cheerfully while Newkirk sauntered behind. Finally, Hogan dropped back and smiled at the British corporal.

"Why did you do a bloody fool thing like that, Colonel?" Newkirk demanded. Respect for authority was not his long suit.

"Ah, we all need a little break from our routine sometimes, Newkirk," Hogan answered glibly. "Besides, I wouldn't want you in there all by yourself."

Newkirk felt a sudden tingle in his belly. "No, I wouldn't want that either, sir. It could get a mite lonely for an enlisted man, all on his own in a cooler deep in the heart of Nazi Germany."

"Exactly. And a known trouble-maker like you needs a firm hand when it comes to discipline," Hogan said with a smile and a wink. They reached the threshold of the cooler, and Hogan swept an arm forward. "After you, Newkirk."

"Thank-ee, sir," Newkirk answered politely.

"In here," Schultz said. "The two of you. Newkirk, I am ashamed of you—drawing such naughty pictures. But Colonel Hogan is a very good officer. You listen to him, now."

"Yes, Schultzie," Newkirk said, looking meek and compliant. "Will you be guarding us?"

"I'll be back in six hours. This is the most escape-proof cell in here. Even with all your monkey business, you have never escaped from this one." The door slammed shut and the two men settled down to sit on the bunk farthest from the door.

Newkirk leaned forward and sighed. "We don't have a tunnel into this one, do we, Sir? It's the only blasted one."

"That's right," Hogan said.

"And Schultz is gone for six bloody hours. We're completely on our own. Not even a jailer to bring us a tin pot of food."

"Mmm-hmm," Hogan said.

"And five days of this. Cor blimey, that's a long time to do nothing," Newkirk said, turning to face the Colonel.

"Mmm-hmm," Hogan answered. "It sure is."

"Well, what are we waiting for, then," Newkirk said with a broad grin.

"I thought you'd never ask," Hogan said. He leaned into Newkirk and silenced him with a deep, long kiss.

*Brasses = brass bands = hands


	2. Chapter 2: A Poker Game

Two hours into their spell in the cooler, Hogan and Newkirk were passed out on a single cot, their trousers loose and unbuttoned, bits hanging out. Newkirk was sleeping on Hogan's chest with a slack jaw, damp hair, and a silly grin, the very picture of contentment.

Hogan gave him a shake. "Come on, wake up," he said. "Newkirk! Rise and shine! That's an order!"

Newkirk awoke with a start. "Who? When? Where?" he spluttered as he broke through the haze of unconsciousness.

"What are you, a journalist?" Hogan grunted with a shove. "Get off of me. You're crushing my arm."

"Sorry, sir," Newkirk said, sitting up to brush off his uniform while squashing Hogan's leg and yawning. He rubbed his eyes as Hogan pried himself from out under the Corporal, who was continuing: "But honestly, sir, if you hadn't worn me out with 40 solid minutes of mutual…"

"Right, right," Hogan groused with a final push to Newirk's arm. "It's always the officer's fault." Finally free, he stood up and stretched, and then realized he needed to tuck himself in and button up. Newkirk saw his trousers were in the same sorry state of affairs, so he stood up and followed suit until Hogan swatted his hands out of the way. "Let me do that for you," Hogan said with a smile, buttoning up Newkirk's fly. He patted him on the waist with both hands as he finished up and stood back to admire his efforts.

"Blimey, sir, I've been dressing myself since I was four. Are you ever going to let me do it again?" Newkirk whined.

"Hmmmm," Hogan said thoughtfully. "I'll let you know."

"Is that the same as 'ask your mother'?" Newkirk snapped back. He sat down with a sulk on his face. Hogan's silence was a pretty good answer to his question. The man was obsessed with making it his job to take off and put on Peter's clothes whenever he could get him alone.

Time to change the conversation. "Well, this morning's pastime was certainly very nice, sir. But we can't keep it up all day," Newkirk said.

"Are you sure?" Hogan said with a leer.

"Sir, I am quite sure. You're 35 years old. You need time to recover," Newkirk replied. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a packet of cigarettes and lighter. From his trouser pocket, he drew a deck of cards.

"All right, deal," Hogan said. "What are we playing? Dealer's choice."

"Well, it's easy, then," Newkirk said with a grin. "Strip poker."

Hogan groaned. This was going to be a very, very tiring five days.

XXX

It was the sixth hand of five-card draw in what had become a one-sided strip poker game, and Colonel Hogan was getting cold.

"Let's see," Newkirk said. "Shoes. Socks. Jacket. Shirt. Vest. I think you can see where this is going, Sir."

"Pants," Hogan grumbled.

"Oh, no, we're not there yet, Sir. But soon," Newkirk said confidently.

"Not underpants, Newkirk. Good old American pants. Trousers, as you would put it," Hogan said with annoyance. "You sure you won't accept my belt?"

"A belt is not an item of clothing. It's an accessory. And strictly speaking, we've already bent the rule for shoes and socks," Newkirk said thoughtfully. "No, sir, trousers it is. Off with them."

Hogan sighed and dropped his pants. "You pick them up," he told Newkirk irritably.

"My pleasure, sir," Newkirk answered, rising from the bunk to help the Colonel out. He folded the trousers neatly and laid them on Hogan's cot with the rest of his uniform.

"Deal," Hogan said with an air of resignation. "You sure you don't have any cards up your sleeves?"

"Seriously, sir?" Newkirk said. "You've been all up my sleeves and over every other part of me lately."

"Naw, I know you don't. I was just being my usual sunny, optimistic self, hoping for an out," Hogan said. "This game would have worked a lot better for me if we could fold, you know," he added.

"Never in a two-person game, Sir. It's just not sporting," Newkirk replied. "Would you like a pity round, Gov? I don't mind."

"Oh, shove it, Newkirk." Hogan said. As he spat the words out, a surge of optimism rose in his heart. He had three queens, a jack, and an eight. Surely the God who had locked him in a cell with this exasperating, exhausting, entrancing Englishman would throw him a bone in the next three draws.

His luck was in. Hogan drew a jack on the third draw and slapped down a high full house. Newkirk looked stunned, shook his head sadly, and laid down his cards on the overturned slops bucket that served as their card table.

Four kings and a 10. Oh, for crying out loud.

"Sorry, old chap," Newkirk said with a smirk. "Off with them."

Hogan stood, let out a deep sigh, and unbuttoned the top button of his shorts when suddenly inspiration struck. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said. "What about my crush cap?"

"Accessory," Newkirk said, shaking his head in a bad imitation of regret. "Ineligible as collateral."

"Aw, come on, Peter. Just this once?" Hogan pleaded.

"Mm. Well, if you're going to beg," Newkirk said.

Hogan sat beside Newkirk on the bed. "All right, I'll beg," he said, leaning in for a kiss. Newkirk rolled his eyes and puckered up, growing a bit more interested as Hogan flicked and twirled his tongue in his mouth. They explored each other for a bit, hands starting to wander, until Newkirk abruptly pulled back.

"Right, time, Gentlemen. Back to the game," Newkirk said crisply, eyes on his shuffle as his trousers bulged. Then he looked at Hogan through his eyelashes and smiled ever so slightly. "But as a show of appreciation for that pleasant interlude, I shall accept the cap. Just. This. Once."

Hogan smiled and plopped his beloved crush cap down on Newkirk's bare head while his Corporal dealt out another hand, then inserted his own hands in his pockets. "It's very cold in here, Sir," he said innocently. "As you well know."

Hoping for a miracle, Hogan ignored whatever Newkirk was up to and picked up his cards. His face instantly fell. Jack of spades, eight of diamonds, seven of hearts, six of spades, two of clubs.

"Bad hand, Sir? Not like you to give the game away so early," Newkirk teased as he rummaged around in his pockets.

"Nah, I'm just a little cold," Hogan said. "Shut up and play."

But Newkirk had a faraway look in his eyes.

"Oh for Pete's sake, take your hands out of your pockets'" Hogan said, crossing his arms. "This is poker, not pool." Newkirk withdrew his left hand.

"Both of them," Hogan warned.

"Sorry, Sir, I forgot I 'ad two hands," Newkirk grumbled, removing the right. "Happy?"

Hogan grinned. "Yep. Don't forget, I'm here to teach you discipline." Plus he needed to focus on the game, not get distracted by Newkirk's hobby.

On the first draw, Hogan discarded the two of clubs for a six of clubs. OK. Now he had a pair.

Second draw: Discarded seven of hearts for a 10 of spades. Hmm, possibility of a straight or a flush.

Third draw: Discarded eight of diamonds for a six of hearts. Great, three sixes! He just needed another six or a jack.

Then Newkirk slapped his cards down. "Straight flush!" he declared. Queen, Jack, 10, 9, and 8 of hearts.

"Gee, thanks, God," Hogan muttered under his breath.

Newkirk held back a squeal as he stretched his arms up and then behind his head. "Sorry, Sir, but the moment of truth has arrived," he said. "Drop 'em"

Hogan just shook his head and stared off to the horizon as he stripped away his last bit of dignity. Off came his shorts. Hogan threw them right at Newkirk.

Newkirk caught the drawers, folded them neatly, and then leaned forward to appraise the man who stood before him in all his glory.

"You weren't joking when you said you were cold, were you, Gov?" he offered.

"Newkirk!" Hogan yelled. He grabbed his crush cap off the Corporal's head and smacked him with it. Then he smiled and pulled his Corporal up to his feet. "Come here, Peter."

Moments later, Colonel Hogan was not the only naked person in the cell. And they had two hours until Schultz would come back.


	3. Chapter 3: The First Contest

Morning dawned on Hogan and Newkirk's second day in the cooler. After Schultz had stopped by with stale bread, watered-down coffee and a few kind words, the prisoners were left to their own devices for at least 10 hours.

They were stretching out aching muscles by leaning into the wall after a rough night spent trying to sleep on the two small cots that turned out to be only one small cot when all was said and done.

The night before, Newkirk had decided to brush up his mathematics after Schultz dropped off their supper trays. With his tailor's tape handy, he took various measurements in various circumstances before proposing a physics experiment to see who could propel a certain small wad the farthest. Newkirk won by three-eighths of an inch, and in the ensuing celebration the revelers collapsed in a tangled mass of limbs on Hogan's cot. Eventually, however, Peter had petered out and proved to be an immovable object. By morning, the dead weight of a sleeping, naked Newkirk had crushed Hogan's left arm into oblivion. Now the Colonel was shaking some life back into it while Newkirk began his daily chain smoking.

"What shall we do today, Colonel?" Newkirk asked. "I picked yesterday's fun activity. I think it's only right that you should choose today's."

"Well, that's very decent of you, Newkirk," Hogan said. "But I still want my shorts and undershirt back."

"You're OK without them for now, Sir," Newkirk said. "And it'll speed things along later on."

Hogan couldn't argue with that logic. He WAS warmer now that he had recovered most of his clothes. And he was pretty sure he would be removing them eventually anyway.

"But my crush cap," Hogan said. "I need that now, Corporal."

Newkirk made a hissing sound and he sucked the air in between his teeth. "Oh, but Colonel, I mightn't have another chance to wear it. Please, just another day with it, Sir? It brings me closer to you." He batted his eyes. Then he got an idea.

"Look here, Sir, you can wear mine," Newkirk said brightly. He plopped his garrison cap onto Hogan's head. "I must say, you look very nice in blue, Sir. I think I've only seen that color on you once before. It was last night when you took your shorts off, wasn't it?

Hogan rolled his eyes. Jeez, he was spending too much time with Newkirk if he had picked that habit up. "Very funny, Mr. Comedian. But I get my underclothes and my crush cap back tomorrow. No argument."

"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir. Is that all, Sir?" Newkirk said.

Hogan leaned in and kissed Newkirk on the lips with such a sudden intensity that he seemed to be inhaling him. He pressed on and plundered his mouth until finally Newkirk pulled away with a yelp. He had to sit down and rest and give himself a chance to subside. "Blimey, Sir, I didn't see that coming," he said weakly while observing a wiggle in his lap.

"Anything to shut you up," Hogan said with a grin. "OK, today's plan. We're going to have a little contest."

Newkirk was still struggling to breathe, but he inhaled deeply and took the bait. "What kind of contest, Sir?"

"Size?" Hogan said.

"Sorry, Sir, that's not fair. You've already won."

"I thought you'd say that," Hogan said. "And I'm glad you noticed. All right then, endurance."

"Meaning what, Sir?" Newkirk asked anxiously. He wasn't sure this was his best event.

"Who can keep it up the longest," Hogan said.

Newkirk sighed. "Do I get a handicap, Sir? I mean, you are older. And it's a known fact that young chaps like myself are a bit, shall we say, quicker."

"No handicap, Newkirk," Hogan said. "This is the Olympics. We're all champions here. But there will be a second event where you may have an edge."

"Which one is that, Sir" Newkirk inquired.

"Frequency," Hogan said. "Over the course of let's say 12 hours. And there has to be proof in the form of… say the big word I taught you, Newkirk."

"… Ejaculation. Got it. Game on, Gov," Newkirk said. "When do we start?"

XXX

The first event was to commence after an hour of calisthenics, a ridiculous activity that Hogan absolutely insisted on. Fortunately, he had made it more interesting, at least for himself, by removing Newkirk's clothing from the waist down.

"Not fair, Sir. Your trousers are on," Newkirk complained as he performed his squat jumps "I'm getting sore bouncing about like this."

"I'm already down two items of clothing, Newkirk," Hogan said n the middle of his push-ups. "Just leveling the playing field."

They exercised a little longer until Hogan had to admit that Newkirk had insufficient support to continue with a handstand.

"All right, all right," Hogan said. "Calisthenics over. I am now going to remove my trousers for our first event. Are you happy?" He turned to face Newkirk.

"Blissfully," Newkirk replied, taking satisfaction in the sight of what Hogan had been hiding under those layers. Things were looking up, Newkirk thought admiringly. "This is the endurance event, is it?" he asked. "I think you're getting a head start, mate. That's not cricket."

"No, it's more like a baseball bat," Hogan said cheerfully before conceding, "OK, we have to reset so that we start at the same point. Help me think of something really, really boring."

Newkirk checked through his mental library and came up empty. "I can't think of anything that isn't terribly sexy, Sir," he said apologetically. "I am 22, you know. It's how we're wired."

"I think they left a copy of _Mein Kampf _ in here for us," Hogan remembered.

"Ooh, that'll do it, Sir," Newkirk said.

By four pages in, the horses had settled down and could be calmly led to the starting gate. "Ready, Newkirk?" Hogan asked.

"I think so, Sir, but I have a query," Newkirk replied. "Is this an assisted or an unassisted event?"

With that question, Hogan leapt to an immediate lead. "Oh my God, Newkirk, we're off! How do you do this to me?" he moaned, slightly breathless from the speed with which his thoroughbred took to the course.

"Give me a chance to catch up and I'll tell you," Newkirk said as he pumped with purpose.

In the heat of battle, they agreed it must be an unassisted event, and as expected, Hogan triumphed. Newkirk was groaning and sputtering to a stop a solid five minutes before Hogan surrendered to the inevitable. Hogan celebrated his win by pushing Newkirk down on the cot for what he termed a "victory lap" – which turned out to mean a great deal of attention dedicated to reviving what was in Newkirk's lap with the help of tiny licks and laps administered by the Colonel's tongue. In this unscheduled special event, Hogan was also triumphant, to Newkirk's great pleasure.

Indeed, they carried for hours with other spontaneous sporting events. Hogan won best aim in directing a stream to a bucket across the room, while Newkirk racked up the most improved award after a messy start. They had a vigorous and rousing discussion of the origins of the sport of "cock-fighting," complete with a re-enactment. They concluded with an extraordinary combination of slow dancing and fast rubbing. All in all, they agreed, it was a memorable day in sporting history. So memorable, in fact, that they forgot they still had a grueling event ahead of them.

But soon it was half past 3 o'clock, and Hogan realized Schultz would be back before long. As was his custom, Hogan wiped down himself and his competitor, dressed himself, and then helped Newkirk back into his clothes. They were going to need a nap before they could begin part 2 of the contest.

XXX

Hogan and Newkirk slipped into deep comas on their respective cots, barely noticing when Sergeant Schultz arrived with their evening meal. The rotund Sergeant was placing the trays on the floor when Hogan awoke with a start.

"Oh, God, it's you, Schultz," he said. "What time is it?"

"Five o'clock," Schultz said. "I'm off duty now, but Colonel Hogan, I have something for you."

Schultz reached into his pocket and drew out a slip of paper, which he handed surreptitiously to Hogan. He read it and scrabbled around in his pocket for a pencil, jotted down a response, and handed it back to Schultz.

"Thanks, Schultzie," he said. "You'll get it back to Kinch?"

"Ja, Colonel. And LeBeau asked me to give these to you, too." He reached into his pocket and drew out two chocolate bars. Hogan smiled. A cooler stay offered lively entertainment, but lousy dining options. The chocolate would sure help.

"I'm off duty for a while, Colonel Hogan. Is there anything you need?" Schultz asked.

"Maybe a king-size bed?" Hogan replied. "Nah, nothing Schultz. But thanks."

Schultz missed the insinuation, but got the point. "These beds look miserable," he acknowledged. "But Colonel Hogan, why are you and the Englander so tired? You look exhausted."

"You'd be surprised how much effort it takes to teach a street urchin like Newkirk how to behave like a gentleman in a prisoner of war camp, Schultz," Hogan said. "We've been up late going over his lessons."

Schultz peered down at Newkirk, who was out like a light on his stomach with his left arm and leg draped over the side his cot. One false move and he would be on the floor. "He must be working very hard to improve himself, Colonel. He may be naughty, but deep down he is a good boy," Schultz said. Hogan just nodded.

"Excuse me for a minute, Colonel Hogan" Schultz said. He stepped out in the corridor and returned with two neatly folded blankets, handing one to Hogan and gently spreading the other one out over Newkirk. "Schlafen Sie gut," he said, patting Newkirk on the back. Newkirk responded with a gurgle and groan and then lurched just an inch too far to his left, crashing to the stone floor.

Schultz and Hogan sprang into action, getting Newkirk upright, semi-alert, and back on his cot, where he moaned, "Oooh, my loaf" five times before sinking back into his coma.

"I guess our contest is going to be postponed until tomorrow," Hogan said regretfully. Uh-oh. Had he really said that out loud? Man, he WAS tired.

"What contest, Colonel?" Schultz asked.

"Oh, we're doing some work on setting and achieving goals," Hogan said. "Self-improvement techniques. They're all the rage."

"Hmm. Very interesting," Schultz said. "Well, I wish you success. I'd watch out for Newkirk if I were you. I think he learns fast. He might beat you in the contest, Colonel."

"And that would be fine with me, Schultz," Hogan said, adding philosophically: "Is there anything more satisfying to a teacher than watching his pupil surpass him? I don't think so."

XXX

It was after 7 pm by the time Newkirk came to again. For a solid half hour, Hogan kept up a good pretense of having won Part 2 of the contest fair and square while Newkirk slumbered, but Newkirk eventually called his bluff following an examination of the required physical evidence. The milky slime that Hogan had attempted to pass off as his output bore a suspicious resemblance to the glop that the camp cook passed off as their evening meal.

Hogan, impressed by Newkirk's powers of deduction and willingness to taste the evidence, admitted the ruse and conceded the round. So by gentlemen's agreement, the contestants agreed to renew their exertions in the morning, when they would both be properly rested.

That matter settled, Hogan shared the news of the day from Kinch, which was that Burkhalter was expected in two days, that the Carter-Olsen-Broughton team had won the Stalag 13 relay race, and that nobody missed Newkirk.

By 8 o'clock, with a greasy bowl of soup, a moldy crust of bread, a mug of cold ersatz coffee, and a chocolate bar in his belly, Newkirk was ready for a few rounds of gin, most of which he magnanimously allowed the Colonel to win.

A rollicking game of Mein Kampf charades followed, and by 9 o'clock, after kissing Hogan in an effort to elicit the name "Eva Braun," Newkirk felt sufficiently revived to fit in some practice for the next day's competition. As usual, Hogan insisted on assisting with some of the preparations, namely the handling of garments.

By the time Hogan had tugged Newkirk's undershorts off, he found himself sportingly assisting his opponent with his efforts. Many strokes, many licks, many kisses, and multiple breathy exclamations of "Oh, God!" later, they were both a crumpled mess again as Hogan lifted himself off Newkirk. It was 10 o'clock.

"Sleep on your own damn cot tonight, Colonel," Newkirk groaned.

"You're kidding, right? I always sleep on my own cot, Newkirk," Hogan dished back. "You're the one who keeps crawling on top of me in the middle of the night for goodnight kisses. I'll be grateful to have the use of my arm in the morning without you grinding your elbows into it."

"Righto, Colonel. Well, good night, love," Newkirk said sleepily. Hogan shook his head and smiled. He pulled the blanket up over Newkirk, planted a kiss on his forehead, and settled back onto his own cot.


End file.
